The house of M. Gueganic, cultivateur, in the village of Locmalo, on the desolate coast of Morbihan, has been visited lately by those spirits whose warped sense of humour leads them to smash windows at night. This has taken place in the very presence of a posse of angry villagers, armed with guns and lamps, but when the maire and the parish priest appeared on the scene to try to calm the excited peasants the evil stone-throwers ceased to throw. But they seem to be just the same sort of idiotic Poltergeist as we get in this country occasionally.
The special correspondent of the Paris newspaper which has the story is, however, a poet. The mysterious stones are said by the villagers to go red when placed in the fire; the old men read warnings into the sinister affair; and the aged mother of the cultivateur, possessed by a sort of mystic terror, stirs no more from her corner by the hearth.
That is, in the original, really Maeterlinckian, that last bit.
Daily Express, 4th January 1922.